


Desk

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [23]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27046114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: The armoury is unbearably loud, and Cassandra goes off in search of somewhere else to work...
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23





	Desk

She cannot hear herself _think_.

The pounding of the hammers, the spit of the flames, the interminable yells of the armourers as they work… She knows it is for a good cause; that they are forging endless weapons and armour that will protect the soldiers of the Inquisition as they draw closer to what she hopes will be the final confrontation with Corypheus.

But that doesn’t make it any easier for her to focus.

She stares unseeing at the page, re-reading the same sentence over and over again, but the words seem to jolt before her eyes with every new noise. Her head begins to pound in time with the hammers. Is the din getting louder? It seems to be.

Her work is important too. A report sent via one of Leliana’s agents – an account of Mattea, a Seeker who had not been on her list of the dead at Caer Oswin. Not as recent as she had hoped: the sighting was nearly a year prior, and who knows what has happened to her in the meantime, but it’s _something_.

Shaking her head to try and clear it, she turns back to her notes, picking up her quill. Perhaps she will able to keep focus more easily when she’s occupied with writing. She copies down the salient points: name, location, date…

“ _Watch out_!”

Her quill skitters across the parchment, dark ink blotting out half a line, as, downstairs, an almighty clatter follows the yell. Heart pounding half from the shock and half from sheer frustration, she gives up, gathering her notes and returning them to their box.

She _cannot_ continue working here.

Outside, the courtyard is almost as loud as the armoury. Commotion spills from the windows and open door and mixes with the sounds of training, creating a near symphony of metal-on-metal.

She ascends the staircase to the battlements, making her way towards Cullen’s office. He is likely to be working himself, but he rarely objects to her presence. However, when she reaches his door, she finds it… locked. Unusual. _Highly_ unusual. Even when he isn’t in, or is asleep in the loft above, he typically leaves his doors open for his runners to leave messages or the guards to more easily traverse the battlements. She considers knocking, but thinks better of it. If he requires rare peace, she will not rob him of it.

The hall is barely better than the courtyard, full of people incessantly talking. Worse, full of _Orlesians_ incessantly talking. Since their success at the Empress’ ball, and the subsequent news that the fortress holds not one but _two_ of the most prominent candidates to be Divine, the place has been flooded with them.

Without making a conscious decision to go there, she finds herself inside the Inquisitor’s quarters. He isn’t present, but she wasn’t expecting him to be. Lady Morrigan has commanded his attention for the last day and a half, teaching him about the strange mirror she brought to the fortress, and whatever wild magical knowledge might aid him in their pursuit of Samson and Corypheus.

It feels a little odd to be here without him.

Not that she isn’t certain she is welcome to be here without him. He has made it clear on a number of occasions that she is. Encouraged it, even.

Still.

However, her reticence is soon overcome by the blissful, blissful _quiet._ With the long glass doors open, there is an echo of activity in the garden below, but it is the merest suggestion of it. When she pulls the doors shut, even that vanishes. Pure, perfect silence. She can feel her headache dissipating.

Now the question turns to _where_ to work?

His desk is a nightmare on the best day, but now it seems even more cluttered than usual.

A large book on elven history is open on the bookrest to a page about the Emerald Knights, a lavishly embroidered bookmark underlining a passage about their companion wolves. She remembers him mentioning them, and can’t help smiling.

Beside it, there is a further stack of books: a variety of tomes on magical theory that look remarkably well-thumbed, though whether by him or their previous owners, she can’t tell.

A heap of reports, both for him and by him, spill over most of the remainder of the desk’s surface, with no rhyme nor reason to their layout. She knows from experience that he has no filing system, no organisational scheme. Even so, she is reluctant to move or sort them. She really doesn’t want to be responsible for something important going missing.

Perhaps she can work on top of them?

Settling in the chair behind the desk, she gingerly places her notes on top of the books. But, unfortunately, the infinitesimal movement causes a deluge of precariously balanced papers to spill over the side of the desk. Grumbling under her breath, she bends, crawling under the desk to scoop them all up.

As she rises, intending to put the papers back, she spots it.

A tray, the same kind they use to bring food up from the hall. Buried in the paperwork. An idea occurs to her. Tentatively, she slides the tray out from under the remaining reports, replacing the fallen papers in its place.

Collecting her notes again, she crosses the vast expanse of space and deposits them on his bed. Plenty of space to take out all her paperwork and spread them across the blanket. She takes a few moments to arrange them in chronological order; a task that would have been difficult in the limited space of her table at the armoury, and inconceivable at the desk.

Her ink, quill and notes fit neatly on the tray, left to one side while she reads. She takes off her boots and gambeson and relaxes back against the headboard, returning to the account of Mattea and her work in the Free Marches.

An hour or two pass in blissful silence, other than the intermittent scratching of her quill.

She is comparing mentions of a particular cleric who may have been working with Lord Seeker Lucius when she hears a warm, fond sigh.

“Oh, now… _that’s_ a beautiful sight.”

Startled, she looks up. She hadn’t heard the door open, or footsteps on the stairs. Nothing at all.

“What?” It’s less a question and more an utterance of surprise.

He drops the armful of books he’s carrying on the couch, already littered with his belongings, and bends to remove his boots.

“You. In my bed. Well, _our_ bed. Not that I’m saying you’ve moved in with me, or that you have to, even though you sleep here more often than not and I couldn’t be happier about that. I know you like having your own space. Just… what’s mine is yours, and so on.” He crosses the room, reaching the bed and leaning over to kiss her. “And not that I’m complaining, because really, this is the furthest thing from complaining, what _are_ you doing here?”

She grunts with disgust. “Working. The armoury was unbearable today.”

His cheeks flush pink. “Ah… yes, uh, that’s probably my fault. Dagna and Harritt are working on a special project for me, something a bit complicated, and they likely outsourced their usual work to the armourers.”

Her eyebrow raises. “Special project?”

“Something to destroy Samson’s fancy armour.”

What irritation she had worked up melts away at that revelation. Finding a way to destroy the red lyrium armour _would_ be highly beneficial to their quest, and the usual work of the forge does need to carry on.

“So… are you angry with me?” he asks, embarrassed and apologetic.

Putting aside her notes, she shakes her head, and his eyes light up. He moves further toward her, resting his knee on the bed beside her for balance, and the movement causes the mattress to shift.

In the space of a moment, she sees the ink pot bounce, the contents leaping from its confines.

“ _Brennan_!”

It doesn’t truly happen in slow-motion, but it feels that way. He follows the line of her outstretched hand, and throws out his own beside it, sparks of magic flying from his fingertips. In a flash, the pot is frozen solid, the ink landing in amorphous shards of dark ice that spill haphazardly across the blanket.

He collapses across her with a huff of laughter.

“Sorry about that. I’ll… I’ll clean it up. I didn’t see… Didn’t think you’d have ink on the bed. Why weren’t you using the desk?”

She gives him a pointed look and then directs his attention towards it. He spots the issue immediately, giving her another guilty look.

“Sorry. I can be a bit… disorganised, can’t I?”

This provokes a laugh from her. An understatement if ever there were one. His quarters are _littered_ with discarded belongings, the desk and the couch the worst of all, the floor hardly better. Books and papers, pieces of clothing and armour, trinkets he’s picked up all over Thedas… she has no idea if he actually knows where to put them, or if he just enjoys having them all to hand, as it were. It was easier to excuse when they were barely at Skyhold for more than a few days at a time between expeditions, or when he was being hounded by etiquette and history lessons before the Empress’ ball, but thanks to the preparations for the assault on the Arbor Wilds, he has had barely anything to do but train since they returned from the Emerald Graves three weeks ago. There has certainly been enough time for him to pick up after himself.

“I don’t suppose I can distract you from it, can I?” he asks.

She tilts her head. “What did you have in mind?”

He holds up a finger, prompting her to hold that thought, while he picks up her notes. She’ll have to reorganise them later, but he does, to his credit, straighten them and put them back within their box. When the box, the quill and ink pot (now full of melted liquid ink again) are safely placed on his couch, a space having been cleared for them, he returns to the bed.

“Where were we?”

“Distracting me?”

His eyes glitter, and true to his word, he distracts her for the rest of the afternoon…

*

The following day, she goes to morning drills as usual. Cullen is working the soldiers seemingly twice as hard at the moment, with extra focus on close-quarters fighting. It is brutal, tiring stuff, and by the time they break for the midday meal, she is practically exhausted.

Her small training area is empty, shaded by the tree even at this time of day. She grabs some food from the kitchen and returns there, intending to read for a while before she continues with her research. The armoury is quieter today. Perhaps Dagna and Harritt have finished their task, or Brennan has had a word about the noise. Andraste bless him.

There is a bouquet of flowers on her usual stool. Wildflowers she recognises from the chantry garden, beautiful and sweet-smelling. She inhales deeply, the perfume soothing her immediately. They must be for her, surely?

As if answering her question, she notices that beneath them is a note, with her name clearly marked, in Brennan’s hand.

“I have a surprise for you upstairs,” she reads, fingers tracing the sketched heart below the text that takes the place of his name.

Upstairs… her loft?

Taking the flowers, she makes her way into the armoury and up the stairs. There is another note on the small table by the window.

“Wrong upstairs, sorry!”

This one is accompanied by a sketch of a four-poster bed with a large owl statue above it. At some point she really must ask Gatsi if he knows the meaning of all the owl statues. Or Solas, perhaps. Skyhold _was_ originally Elven…

By the time she makes it up to the Inquisitor’s quarters, she is thoroughly exhausted, and the door is locked. Confusing, given that she had been specifically invited up. It isn’t… usually locked.

She knocks.

There is a flurry of movement on the floor above her, the thundering sound of footsteps on the stairs, and then the door flies open.

Brennan is stood behind it, in only his boots, breeches and undershirt, his hair a mess. When he sees her standing there, a grin blossoms across his face.

“Sorry! It’s later than I thought it was. Things… took a little longer than I was expecting them to. Do you like the flowers?”

She nods.

He grins again, offering her his hand. “Sorry, you must be tired and here I am, blathering on when you should be resting. I was just… I wanted you to see this as soon as possible. But, and I know this is a little ironic, close your eyes for me?”

Despite his excitement, she has no idea what to expect. She obeys his request, closing her eyes and letting him lead her up the last flight of steps.

Her other senses are on high alert. The room is as quiet as usual, though the balcony doors must be open because she can hear the dim echo of voices coming from the garden. A fire is burning in the fireplace. There is a certain sweet smell, though that could just be the flowers she still has clutched in her other hand. No clues as to what the surprise might be.

He guides her to the middle of the room.

“And… open!” he says, triumph in his tone.

She hesitates for just a fraction of a moment, preparing herself to react joyously, no matter what he has in store for her.

Then she opens her eyes.

She sees the bookshelves first, in the corner of the room. A little fuller than she remembers them being, and for a second, she remembers him taking them to the library on their first date, presenting her with the bookshelf of smutty literature. But then she draws her attention down, and sees what the surprise truly is.

Where there was once one, hopelessly messy desk, there are now… two. Both clear and tidy.

“Oh…”

It’s more of an exhale than a word, but it conveys meaning well enough.

He draws her closer, releasing her hand so she can run her fingers along the smooth, light wood. The second desk is identical to his, save for the lack of a mere handful of reports, and the addition of a beautiful glass vase. He picks it up, proffering it, already half-full of water.

“For your flowers,” he explains.

Smiling, she hands them over. Once filled, he replaces it in the corner of her… _her_ desk.

“Where did you get such a thing in the last few hours?” she asks. The workmanship is exceptional, there is no chance he had the opportunity to commission it and have it built since she left him that morning. And it would make no sense for him to have arranged it any earlier.

His cheeks flush pink. “We have to be _extra_ nice to Josephine for a while.”

She frowns, not understanding.

“Well, until about three hours ago, this desk was in her office. But I explained the situation and asked her really, _really_ nicely, because it matches mine, and then she said that there weren’t really enough drawers for her purposes anyway. I’m not… _entirely_ sure she was telling the truth, because we’ve been here for almost a year now, haven’t we, and if she didn’t like her desk there has been more than enough opportunity for her to replace it, but-“

He is forced to stop babbling as she seals her lips across his, a ‘thank you’ and a ‘please be quiet’ all at once. She feels him smile against her mouth, wrapping his arms about her waist and hauling her against him.

It doesn’t take long for his excitement to overcome him again, however. He pulls back, eager to show her the inks (“three colours!”), quills, parchment and sealing wax he has stocked in one drawer; a handful of novels stashed in another (“in case you want a break from your work!”), and the fact that the candles on hers are pressed with flowers unlike than the plain ones on his. Her notes, which had been in their box on the couch when she left this morning, are now in a third drawer, the Seeker tome in a fourth. The last two remain empty, to be filled however she pleases.

“Do you like it?” he asks finally, voice filled with nerves and trembling fingers tangled with hers as she tries out the chair at his insistence.

(Which is not Josephine’s throne, thank goodness, but a much more simple chair they had found in one of the storage rooms.)

“Brennan,” she starts, then trails off, overwhelmed. She’s never had this. Neither the desk that is hers and hers alone, nor the man who would see that she needed one without her asking for it, and provide it without a second thought.

“If there’s anything you’d like to change, just say the word. We can get the craftsman up here, or order something different if you’d prefer…”

“It’s _wonderful_ ,” she insists, smiling up at him. “Thank you.”

His worried smile softens, his eyes brightening. “You’re welcome, my love.”

It’s only then that she registers the rest of the room. The fact that the couch is clear of jumble, and she can see far more of the floor than she has in a long while. His bookcases look overfilled because, for once, half their contents is not strewn about the room. A new basket stands beside his armoire, brimming with shirts and smallclothes, ready for the laundry.

“You… you tidied up?”

He flushes again, glancing around. “Oh… yes. Sorry. To be honest, I had Bull’s help bringing up the desk and I didn’t want him to see the mess. Which rather made me think about why I don’t mind _you_ seeing such a mess. Terribly lazy of me. I can’t promise it’s always going to look as tidy as this, but I am going to try a bit harder. And _your_ desk will remain a clutter-free zone, I can assure you.”

She believes that he believes it, though whether it will remain the case, she has her doubts.

“I think that is very admirable,” she tells him anyway.

“You flatter me.”

“I’m trying.”

He grins for a moment, and then it fades, his gaze darting towards the stairs.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Please believe me that if it were my choice, I would spend the rest of the afternoon with you, but, uh… I have a confession to make.”

Her hand tightens around his instinctively. “What?”

“Well, yesterday… You weren’t the only one who got very distracted. When I came up, I was only supposed to be dropping off Morrigan’s books and picking up my new amulet, but well… You were in my bed, _our_ bed, when I wasn’t expecting it, and I… Yes, I got distracted.”

She can’t help but smile. “What were you _supposed_ to be doing?”

“Training,” he admits. “With Commander Helaine. She’s trying to teach me this Decloaking Blast spell that would be _very_ helpful if we have to go up against Samson again, or Corypheus. When I went down to get dinner last night, she cornered me and reminded me that we were supposed to have been training. Luckily, she was in a good mood, a _surprisingly_ good mood, actually, but… I don’t really want to get on her bad side, so I ought to…”

“Go.”

He gives her a half-hearted smile. “You don’t mind?”

“Go,” she repeats.

“I love you,” he tells her, bringing their still joined hands up to his lips and pressing a kiss against her knuckles. “Truly.”

She smiles fondly at him. “I love you too.”

“When I come back, I’ll bring dinner. They were making pastry this morning, so they might have some of those little chicken things you like.”

“You are going to get distracted again, my love,” she warns him softly, and he squeezes her hand one last time before he releases it.

“Till later then.”

“Till later.”

He goes over to his desk, digs an amulet out of a drawer, and gives her a last, fleeting kiss before he descends the stairs and leaves the room.

She turns to back to her desk.

 _Her_ desk.

In a blissfully quiet room, with just the echoes of activity filtering in through the open doors. She locates her notes again, props them on the book rest, then takes out a quill and ink.

And gets to work.

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to my darling oOAchilliaOo, who inspired this work in two ways. Firstly, because when my computer tried to autocorrect 'she writhes on his bed' to 'she writes on his bed' (when I was writing _Want_ ), she was the one who went "ha, you should write _that_ fic!", which inspired the first half of the fic. And secondly, because she and her husband just got matching desks, which inspired the second half. ♥


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